Under the great roiling, boiling curds of sky I lay
The moon somewhere; pinging the reflection of the sun’s rays
Back onto their backs, second hand, third hand light
Feeling its incompleteness, the cinema of its unthinking
Mind. Drowned by days, nights where only words come
Struck dumb or not dumb enough, they are an armour
Against; a barrier, an exposure to a relentless radiance

Something near to what I wanted to say

Not close enough, so keep using them to circumscribe
My finger pushing, coaxing, reassigning cloud colours
To each line, each filtered feeling, each stab at truth
Till someone understands at last, a lost father to myself
A core; my utterances there, understood and filled…

It’s just a look I’m wearing; devoted, disturbed
Keep telling it to wedding guests as they pass by
Sugar almond-stuffed they avoid my eye

Mortal is wearing crimson, my snake of joy
He shoots out his blue forked tongue at flies
And women at the buffet table eating dainty pies

I let him slink into my pocket, he curls and vibrates
Later I slip him a dead mouse, a beetle and some premier cru
I look nonchalant as though I have an albatross
At home, a fine car and a marriage bed